On Harrow Hill

After eating, he cleared the table and opened his laptop. He knew that the best antidote to useless speculation was a deep dive into a sea of facts.

He reinserted the USB drive with all the videos and crime-scene photos. He reviewed every item, every detail, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Morning came with a clap of thunder, followed by the downpour that had seemed imminent the previous day.

As Gurney steered the Outback into Abelard’s parking area, Hardwick’s growling GTO was pulling in from the other side. They emerged from their cars at the same time. The rain had finally let up, leaving large puddles on the saturated ground and a cool, clean scent in the air. They went inside and sat at their usual table.

Marika came over holding a small pad and pencil. The hair that was blue a few days before was now platinum blond. Her lipstick was retro red.

“Hey, boys, what’s it gonna be today?” She seemed to be doing a riff on a diner waitress in an old movie.

Hardwick ordered regular coffee, black. Gurney ordered a double espresso. Hardwick then turned to Gurney.

“I saw your friend Morgan on TV last night. Quite the fucking story.”

“What did you think of it?”

“You mean, what do I think of the little creep with the deer-turd eyes turning out to be the bad guy? Hey, Larchfield’s a creepy shithole, so the idea that the shithole mayor is a multiple murderer didn’t exactly knock me off my feet.” He paused and gave Gurney an appraising look. “But that phone message you left for me sounded like you’re not on board with the happy resolution.”

Gurney shrugged. “There are always unresolved issues when the people you’d most like to interview are all dead.”

“Issues like the ‘unexploded bomb’ you mentioned in your message? The fuck is that about?”

It was about what George and Clarice Flacco had told Gurney during his visit to Crickton. He filled Hardwick in on the background events—Hanley Bullock’s rumored “affair” with the underage Lori Strane, his subsequent resignation from Larchfield Academy, his relocation to Crickton, and his embrace of vodka.

“The same Lori Strane who later became Mrs. Angus Russell?”

“The very one.” Gurney then related in detail the Flaccos’ account of what had happened the day of Bullock’s death and who was present for it.

Hardwick reacted with his routine skepticism. “So when Bullock croaked, a bearded guy and a gray-haired guy were there. That’s it?”

“A big bearded guy who arrived on a black motorcycle and a neat little guy with silver-gray hair.”

“So you’ve decided that the big guy must have been one of Gant’s Patriarchs and the little guy was Gant himself—and that they were sent there by Angus Russell to ice Bullock?”

“That thought did occur to me.”

“The motive being what?”

“Angus wanting to flex his muscles? Show Lorinda what he had the power to do? Possibly give her a subtle warning? Maybe he liked the idea of making Bullock pay for what he did with a fifteen-year-old. Or maybe Bullock discovered something damaging about Angus, tried to take advantage of it, and didn’t realize who he was dealing with.”

“How far out on that branch do you want to get before it breaks and dumps you in the shitter? Sure, what you’re saying is possible. But it’s equally possible that the big guy really was Bullock’s cousin, the gray-haired guy really was a doctor, and Bullock really did die of a heart attack. And it’s very possible that the Flaccos’ recollections of what happened on one high-stress day ten years ago are totally screwed up. And no matter what the truth is, at this point who the hell cares? More to the fucking point, why do you care?”

“If Angus was behind it and Gant was involved, it would be evidence of a long-standing criminal relationship between the Russells and the Patriarchs, and it would suggest that they may have cooperated in those unsolved ‘disappearances’ of Angus’s enemies. Hilda Russell told me that Angus gave a lot of money to Gant’s church. That could have been a way of paying him for services rendered—and even getting a tax deduction for it.”

“Christ, you’re actually thinking that the Reverend is a hit man?”

“I’m thinking he could be. Interestingly, he bailed out one of his Patriarchs—who could have proved to be a dangerous embarrassment—and the guy hasn’t been seen since.”

“Which means he’s holed up somewhere with half a dozen hookers on meth.”

“Always possible. But I’d bet on a terminal disappearance.”

“Because he knew too much?”

“Because he could link Gant’s Patriarchs to an armed attack on a local eccentric.”

Marika arrived with their coffees. It took Hardwick a moment to refocus. “You’ve shared these thoughts with Morgan?”

Gurney shook his head. “Morgan doesn’t want complications. He’s committed to a simple message: evil has been vanquished, peace has been restored. No doubts. No questions. No static.”

Hardwick made a sucking noise through his teeth. “Look, I’m not saying this Bullock thing is worth pursuing, but if it were, where would you start?”